


Happenstance

by high_life



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: A little bit of fluff, And a little bit of angst, Character Study, F/M, Slow Burn, all by chance, of routines and rituals and reasons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-08-10 11:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20135029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_life/pseuds/high_life
Summary: nounhap·pen·stance | \ ˈha-pən-ˌstan(t)s  , ˈha-pᵊm-Definition: a circumstance especially that is due to chanceThey came together by mere happenstance.





	1. Part I

There are few things in life that Tilly Jackson takes for granted. She supposes, for obvious reasons, that someone like her finds creature comforts in the most mundane things. Some mornings it’s the rhythmic pushing of wet clothing against the washboard, the crisp air of the Heartlands tingling her skin with yellow sweater pushed high up on her elbows, Karen humming a made up melody low in her throat next to her. Other mornings she’ll sit, coffee hot between her hands in a tin cup, and simply _ listen_; Dutch, as he reads passages from his favourite book, Charles attempting to teach another somewhat willing student how to feather an arrow, Uncle and his tall tales of far off lands she’s sure don’t even exist. Moments like these make Tilly feel like she _ belongs_. That she has her place, in a gang of misfits and bandits and strangefolk alike.

_ Little Miss Sensible_.

That was her, plain and simple. Dependable, reliant, willing to sew the same patch back on twice even though she tells Sean to watch his knees, or Arthur to eat a little less. Tilly knows, matter of factly, that routine is what makes her tick. That she can count on certain things, even with camp being packed up and unpacked again, with snow tickling her face one week and sun creeping down her neck the next. That there would always be a pile of washing, or things to clean, or tools to sharpen, or needles to thread. That _ she _ would always be here. So she takes her time; watches Mary-Beth throw her embroidery to the ground in frustration usually around mid-afternoon, and picks it up and finishes it for her by dusk. Carefully removes a whiskey bottle from Karen’s slipping fingers before tucking her into her bedroll. Makes sure Arthur’s flower, a constant by his bedside, is placed just _ right _ so it doesn’t wilt in the sun. Tilly never thinks twice about these things. Doesn’t need to, when it becomes such an ingrained part of her day, to the point where she almost _ expects _ it. Looks _ forward _ to it.

It’s then firmly and positively the reason why she finds herself bent over the old, familiar washboard one afternoon without a single thought. Not that she should’ve been questioning _ why _ she was there; not at all, considering the amount of dirty clothes that were usually piling up by this point in the month. More, it was the arrival of a blue-jacketed figure with a worn guitar slung over crossed knees and spurs glinting in the sun. Javier Escuella tips his head up and smiles at her.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he’s asking, like he does most afternoons, and like most afternoons Tilly is shaking her head and smiling back because that’s what they’ve always done in camp. That this is one of those _ certain things. _

He sits there then and picks lilting songs with fingers that slide over strings, and it makes the afternoon feel like a haze, the good kind where Tilly feels at peace with the world and at peace with herself. Except somewhere, far in the back of her mind, she suddenly becomes _ aware _ . She’s not sure how it happens, or for what particular reason, but for the first time she notices how dark hair brushes against warm cheeks, reddened slightly by the chilled air. Notices deep, brown eyes that follow each press of the strings against the frets. Realises, quite clearly, that Javier Escuella is _ handsome_.

Tilly doesn’t remember the last time she’s thought of a man as _ handsome_. The idea strikes her like a match being lit in the snow, like the story she read once of the little girl peering into the window of a beautiful house on Christmas Eve, while her bones froze outside. It presents to her so strongly that it almost feels _ forbidden_. Something not within her reach. _ Tantalising_. She lets the afternoon drift by with no fanfare, no glimpse of emotion on her face that would belay the little fire that starts to kindle. But something in Tilly’s faithful routine changes. _ Quietly_.

The next morning she wakes up with the first flutter of birds above the tattered canopy of the wagon, listens to them chirp between themselves before washing her face and resetting her hair. Clasps together her favourite jacket, the grey one that sits above her hips and rests just _ so _ on her black skirt. Pulls on her boots. And once she has her coffee in her hands, she picks a spot on the cliff and sits. Like usual. Like clockwork.

It’s gorgeous country here, she thinks. Mountains jut out of wispy fog and pine trees wave gently, and she can just about hear the river crackling with life, _ giving _ life as deer come for their morning drink. It’s not her usual scenery, and certainly not what they had out west, but maybe that’s why she likes it. Unfamiliar and familiar all at once. Comforting like a childhood blanket, but new like a shiny penny. She’s far more pensive than she gives herself credit for, and has far more clarity than her first sip of coffee should offer, but Tilly reckons mornings were for sitting and thinking, and she’ll be damned if anybody tried to change that.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

And it’s like a cog thrown in her wheel.

Tilly turns, then, to see the long shadow of a wide brimmed hat and red and yellow poncho draped across blue. Javier Escuella stands there looking every part of dashing Mexican outlaw, with boots perfectly shined and gunbelt decorated with intricate swirls and _ God_, how did she never notice any of this before?

“Yes,” she replies politely. Because brown eyes have settled on her and look her over with a kind of uncertain air, like he wanted desperately to hear what she thought but maybe he just wanted to head back up the hill and forget about it altogether.

Tilly is struck.

“You seen this before, haven’t you,” eyes suddenly dart away. She realises he’s nervous.

“Yes,” she agrees again. And then takes a little breath in. “But, you’re right. It’s beautiful out there.”

There’s a little noise that escapes Javier Escuella’s throat, like half way between happily pleased and a caught frog being cleared away and Tilly watches as he nods and gently, _ ever _ so gently, moves himself a little closer to her. They stay like that, with the sun warming their faces slowly, with the camp waking up behind them, with still a sizeable distance between his standing shadow and her knees drawn up to her chest. But Tilly senses something. Feels another log thrown on a gathering fire.

Later, Arthur heads out with legs swung over his horse and Charles in the lead. They’ve gone hunting and she’s more than glad because Charles always brings back something _ good _ for dinner, something that makes the stew a little tastier. She knows it’s because he uses a bow and arrow and not a gun like the other boys; buckshot makes her stomach turn. But Sean still isn’t back, and Lenny is resting, so she finds herself heading towards the rifles to relieve whoever was on guard duty.

She likes the way a rifle feels in her hands; heavy, with that distinct smell of metallic from a fresh polish of oil, a real and tangible thing that maybe a woman shouldn’t know how to use, and especially not as well as she does. Tilly has many memories linked to guns, but these rifles have only ever been for protection. It’s a power she doesn’t mind wielding. Sun fanning down through the trees, she pulls herself away from camp and towards the winding path leading out. Doesn’t think, at least too much, of who belonged to the footsteps crunching up the side of the hill.

“_Hola_, Tilly.”

Wind blows through his poncho just _ so _ , and his eyes glint just _ right_, and Tilly isn’t much of a superstitious person, but all good things came in threes and Javier Escuella was very much on target. The fire burns a little brighter in her chest.

“Looks like it’s my turn,” she says as he comes to a standstill — albeit not too close — and gestures to the rifle in her arms. Tilly tries vainly to keep her voice even and the blush out of her cheeks but he looks awfully handsome with one hand on his belt buckle, and the other pressed to his knee. Like a drawing on a cigarette card.

“I guess so.”

And there it was; the _ smile_, the one that crept into the corners of his mouth and made his eyes crease, and Tilly finds herself staring maybe a little too much but can’t seem to look anywhere else. She realises, then, that Javier catches it. A flood of reassurance flushes his face and he pulls himself up, stands a little straighter with the kind of confidence he normally exuded.

“We should do a round,” he says suddenly with a fresh breath. “You know, check the perimeter with two sets of eyes.”

The logic makes total and complete sense, and to anybody close enough to overhear their conversation (_there was) _ it seemed like a wholly innocent idea with the safety of the camp in mind (_it wasn’t_). Javier looks so eager, and maybe even a little _ cunning _ that Tilly nods, head raised high, and plays along.

“Sounds like a plan,” she says and then adds for effect, “we can’t slack off with the Pinkertons on our trail.”

“Exactly!”

And so shoulder to shoulder, they turn back down the leafy path that Javier had trudged up, and Tilly hears the familiar sounds of camp get quieter and quieter. It’s a few minutes of walking with rifles clinking and wind catching in their clothes before either of them say anything. And, for a brief moment, Tilly feels almost as if this could be another one of her _ certain things_. But she’s beginning to like the change of events. A disruption to her routine. The apple in her Eden.

“Those mountains were rough,” Javier decides to start as the river trickles into view. “I know neither of us are built for the cold.”

From the corner of her eye she watches him look at her, gaze flicking over her features in a way she quite likes before scanning the path in front of them again. Warmth spreads from her little fire.

“It ain’t so bad,” she tilts her head. “We survived, didn’t we?”

Javier nods next to her with a crack of a twig below his gold-tipped boots.

“I’m glad to be out of it, that’s for sure. I didn’t think I’d make it with my coat back in Blackwater.”

Tilly stretches her mind to Colter, to a few weeks ago with snow deep as her middle and wind colder than ice. She’d been cooped up inside with the girls and a miserable Swanson, but then she remembered John Marston finally reappearing looking much worser for wear and Javier shivering by his side — dressed almost exactly as he was now. Shirt, waistcoat, jacket to his hips and poncho. Hardly enough protection for below freezing weather.

“That’s all you had?” she turns to him as they loop around the cliff face. Doesn’t think before reaching out a hand to feel the weight of the colourful material draped across his shoulders. Javier looks startled for a moment before easing into a bashful smile. Maybe walks a little closer next to her, like he had that morning.

“It’s good for cold nights in Mexico,” he offers, before shrugging. “The Grizzlies? _ Ehh_, not so much.”

Bright imagery of a foreign land that Tilly has never set foot in fills her mind; she imagines dusty roads, coyotes, maybe the same kind of strange Cactus plants she’d seen in Texas the year they were down there. And Javier; a gallant man of the people — if his campfire stories were anything to go by. She doesn’t pin him as someone to brag. Life can’t have been easy with a bounty four times the size of Dutch’s. But she thinks he must be proud in a way, to be still wearing his clothing from back home, come rain or shine. A distinct marker of who he was. Where he came from. Tilly decides she likes this.

“Well, s’long as you ain’t freezin’ now,” she nods, and then, without really thinking much, “But if you ever need some holes patched up, you can bring it by me.”

The wind brushes past them again as they pull themselves up the other side of the hill, still away from camp but leveling out to the dense foliage of trees. Tilly begins to focus on weaving their way through the bushy grass and misses the way Javier’s face glows suddenly — not from the sun, peeking through the trees — but from a little fire of his own.

“You mean that?” He says, and then what Tilly _ does _ notice is the slightest of turns towards her.

This is the longest she’s ever been in his company. The longest they’ve ever _ talked_, and she realises quite suddenly that it’s only been ten minutes at the most but she feels warm. Content, but with the smallest of tingles that starts in her stomach and bubbles up through her body until the tips of her fingers feel alight. She doesn’t know this feeling very well. It feels different. New. _ Exciting_. And, like the day before, Tilly becomes aware. Aware of how his figure only just eclipses hers, not too tall and certainly not imposing. How his shoulders stand straight, but his eyes look _ hopeful_. How Javier Escuella is _ looking _ at her.

There’s a moment then where Tilly nods — or at least she thinks she does — and Javier hovers closer, like he wanted to say something, or _ do _ something that Tilly really wouldn’t have been entirely opposed to. But with all the good timing in the universe, she hears the beat of hooves to the ground and there were Charles and Arthur cresting over the other side of camp. They split, like two magnets being forced apart, and Javier mumbles something about a job and Tilly motions towards the rest of the route and for all intents and purposes, the moment is blown away with the wind of the evening.

  


—————

  


Javier Escuella is a man of reasons. Reasons, he thinks, are what make people choose the paths they take; good, or bad, or perhaps long and winding instead of straight and narrow, a reason for waking up in the morning, or wearing a certain colour, or jumping on a ship and sailing to the other side of the world. A reason for living. A reason for dying. Javier theorises that everyone makes decisions based on _ something_. And whether those decisions were ultimately the _ right _ one — well, that was to be debated. But, there was a reason then, for what time he usually pulled himself up off the bedroll. A reason for heading towards the river — or nearest bucket of water — to wash his face, his neck. A reason for making sure he laid his jacket out straight the previous night. A reason for taking his time, _ meticulously_, to make sure every part of himself looked exactly _ right_. All of these things had a common reason, a simple one at best and a convoluted one at worst. Javier, quite plainly, believed that if one took pride in their appearance, the rest would follow.

He usually spends his early mornings by the campfire in Horseshoe Overlook. Tin cup of coffee placed to the side, one ankle resting over the other, Javier savours his first cigarette of the day like a ritual. He watches smoke unfurl from his mouth and hit the cold air, like a serpent rising and spiraling to the sky until it disappears, evaporates somewhere over the crackling embers by his boots. It’s been rare, these last few months, that he can let himself sit like this. But he reasons that it’s good for his soul. Good to rest, to let his mind drift and his nerves to unbundle. Good to just _ be_. Javier thinks of nothing in particular while partaking in this. Doesn’t focus on any one thing. Doesn’t let himself go too far inside his head, lest he overthink and try to reason with himself that maybe he should be doing something else, doing _ more_. Because he knows loyalty doesn’t always show itself like a workhorse, that Dutch sees he’s been going above and beyond since Blackwater. That sometimes, being a presence in camp was just as important. And, if he had to be very honest with himself, he enjoys it. Enjoys _ this_.

Brown eyes flick over the spaces between the tents. But maybe Javier Escuella has _ another _ reason.

He searches then, for a figure dressed in yellow that had a habit of standing out in his peripheral like a red cape to a bull. A woman with skin the colour of browned apricots, and hair twisted so delicately to one side that he’s sure he’s spent too long committing it to memory. Javier isn’t really an artist of any degree, but he figures if he knew how to paint, to sketch like Arthur did, he could fill a dozen journals twice over. Could etch every detail down. Could, quite contently, spend every day memorising her. The voice of reason tries to rattle its cage deep inside. The voice, which _ God _ knew, he normally listened to dutifully. But somehow, without even realising, Javier has been keeping it locked away tightly and thrown away the key. That on the matter of Tilly Jackson, he _ refuses _ to listen.

He’s not sure how it starts, where it all begins. She’d always been there, almost as long as he remembers being part of the gang. It was nigh on four years now since he’d met Dutch and four years since he started speaking English, and four years since he had never really seemed to _ notice. _ The way she smiled, like a secret passed down to whomever she was speaking to — no matter if it was Karen or Arthur — as if it were reserved just for them. The way she moved, with head held just a little bit high, chin tilted up, arms swishing past her skirts in a kind of rhythm he couldn’t help but hear. The way she drew her knees up to her chest, with coffee in hand, and eyes cast out over the cliff face every morning like clockwork. But Javier seems especially drawn, unexpectedly _ mesmerised_, by hearing her talk. _ God_, if he had known English could sound like _ this_; Tilly Jackson rolled her voice over words like she was _ playing _ with them, like each and every syllable was up for contention and she was in charge. She could drawl out a vowel and snap it back in one go, could make a word have an entirely new meaning just by how she _ said _ it, could speak fast or slow or any speed in between and it all sounded so _ wonderful_. Javier lets his mind wander on this specific subject sometimes late at night. Wonders, maybe, what she would sound like speaking to him. _ Alone_.

He thinks, then, of the small conversations they’ve had. Of moments sitting by her wash station, guitar in hand, pretending very much that he was focusing on the tune from his fingertips but was _very_ much watching her instead. Javier starts slow, doesn’t engage her any more than he deems necessary. Listens. Keeps his ear open to the chatter between her and Karen, Mary-Beth. And then gently — _oh_ so gently — eases himself in. Makes polite talk. Doesn’t try to disrupt her mornings by the cliff, at least any more than a person quite should. Doesn’t try to distract her from work, lest Miss Grimshaw came rounding the corner with scolding words. Doesn’t try to make himself imposing, because really the last thing Javier wants to be is _that_ man, the one that thought women were there to be moulded and sculpted and _manipulated_. But then the unexpected happens. Tilly Jackson starts to _look_ at him. _Earnestly_, like she noticed him and noticed his words, and if he had worn a certain scarf or shined his boots just a little more, or tipped his sombrero just _so_ on his head. And Javier suddenly has a solid, honest to God and Jesus Christ and the_ Holy Spirit_ _above_ reason. 

As pure luck would have it, the minute he stumbles upon his _ eureka_, his pot of gold, his big sign with _ GO _ written all over it in black ink, Javier is pulled away from camp. There’s talk of scouting out the local town — _ Valentine_, of course it mocks him so — and Dutch is full of ideas, full of orders again to send him along with Charles and he ends up spending a full day in the local saloon. There’s women (_though he isn’t half interested_) and a bar fight (_maybe a little more_), and then Josiah Trelawny is back and he has to suffer a horse ride listening to absolute drivel all the way back to Blackwater. They stay camped out there for days because Sean’s been sighted — and maybe he misses the bastard just a little — and Javier does everything in his power to avoid conversations. To save his words. To keep the idea alive, burning like a fire in his stomach, that Tilly Jackson will still want to talk to him.

“Mr. _ Escuella_, you are _ awfully _ quiet for once,” Trelawny murmurs to him at some point with their bodies flat against the rock and binoculars to their eyes. “Cat got your tongue?”

Charles makes a noise in his throat.

“I wouldn’t bet it was a _ cat_,” the normally stoic man says from his other side. Javier has half a mind to hit him.

“I’m just focused.”

It’s half a lie, and not a very good one, but Javier wriggles with purpose closer to the edge as if to demonstrate his point.

“And what are we betting on exactly?” It’s too late, Trelawny’s interest has been piqued and if Javier knew the extravagant man — which he unfortunately did — there was no stopping him. He attempts to nip it firmly in the bud.

“_Nothing, _ay quit it already.”

There’s a glint in Charles’ eyes now and Javier wonders feverishly if the man knew much more — and perhaps _ saw _ much more — than he let on.

“_Ah_,” Trelawny says then. And as if he were watching a damn circus act, he sees a wink half the size of Texas passed over his head to the long-haired man and an equally sized one sent back.

Javier manages to keep himself together with sheer willpower — and maybe a little gunpower — through a battle for Sean against a slew of bounty hunters, two more innuendo-laced conversations (and that red-headed bastard not making it any easier) and then finally, blissfully he’s _ back_. Horseshoe Overlook looks like heaven and it’s pearly gates beckon him forward. Javier uses the excitement of Sean stumbling off his horse to disappear amongst the tents, to weave his way to his things. To grab for a comb, a blade and an iridescent glass bottle. There’s a bucket hidden behind a shrub and he finds it thankfully full, with fresh water from the river below and Javier wastes no time. He sets his things aside and _ begins_.

Water makes contact with his skin and the dust washes away. It’s a ritual, of Course, but this time his ritual has a much _ different _ reason than simply presenting himself to the world. Javier doesn’t have to put on a front with the gang anymore. There had been a moment when money was heavy in his pockets for the first time in America, after Dutch had brought him in and his English started to pick up, and the first thing Javier had bought were a fresh set of clothes. He’d found a store down in Texas, run by a man from back home, and spent every last penny from his first, big job. The clothes made him feel _ whole _ again. Like he had a place in America. As _ himself_. He’d worn turquoise, and gold and any kind of fabric that held a fibre of the air he missed, the smells and the people and the way of life. Javier took a certain kind of pride. _ Still _ takes pride, though these days he doesn’t feel like he has to prove something to these people, his _ family_.

But to _ Tilly Jackson _ — his skin shivers. Not from the cold that starts to set in his damp hair, or the sting of cologne against his neck, but from pure, unadulterated anticipation. Javier picks out his favourite clothes, grabs for his guitar, and with a roll of his shoulders, pushes himself forward into the burgeoning celebration.

  
  



	2. Part II

Celebrations in the Van Der Linde Gang are often far and few between. Tilly remembers, though not very well, when things were a little more stable and there had been promises of finding land out West. She’d dream at night of quaint wooden houses, all built neatly together in a circle with flowerbeds in the window and real fireplaces inside. Plenty of trees for Jack to chase rabbits through, and deer to be hunted for dinner and things, in her mind, would seem much more settled and like they had somewhere to _ be_. That they had found _ it_, their El Dorado and life would never have to exist again in suitcases thrown in the back of wagons and beds of carpet on cold ground. In her dreams they would gather around a big bonfire, a proper one with real kindling, and Abigail would bring up beer that had been chilling in a cool basement. They would drink. They would sing. And they would celebrate, every night, that life was _ good_. 

But then things had changed and plans were scribbled out and all that was dashed like water thrown cold.

There hadn’t been much reason to celebrate lately. Tilly thinks of Jenny, of the Callander boys. People who had been like intertwined branches through her family tree and had ended up as nothing more than carnage. Blackwater was everything she thought they were fighting against; needless violence, a kind of sickening greed that made her skin crawl and eager to leave the spoils untouched. Turns out she needn’t have worried. They left it all behind, ran away from the town and the mayhem in the dead of night with barely a second to pack what she already owned. Tilly’s thankful for what made it. Thankful for who’s still here. For Lenny, who had buried their dead. For Hosea with his wise words on the fragility of life. For Arthur, the rock holding down the quickly slipping away sheets of paper. But it feels, deep in Tilly’s core, that the wind has started to blow in a different direction. That their luck is starting to run out. 

A red headed Irishman just happens to be the first glimmer of a new flame.

Sean McGuire is suddenly back, bloodied but fresh faced behind Charles on Tiama. They pull into camp like triumphant soldiers returning from battle but to Tilly that’s exactly what they _ are_; she and Mary-Beth clamour around them, hoist them down with warm hands and giddy smiles, tend to their wounds with a sense of pride. There’s excitement in the air and Dutch’s voice is booming across camp and it all feels so _ alive_, like someone was blowing air on the fire and cradling it back into life. She’s so caught up in the moment that she doesn’t even notice the obvious. A figure, dressed in blue, that drops quietly from his horse, dips his head with a bashful smile when someone claps him on the back in congratulations. The man that ducks behind the tents and disappears like a schoolboy weaseling his way out of morning assembly. Because Tilly has forgotten. Forgotten all about Javier Escuella, and the little fire of her own that he’d been steadily taking care of. 

“Come on then you bastards! Are we havin’ a party or _ what_?” 

Sean injects a much needed energy after Miss Grimshaw releases him from her iron grips (once and twice over to make sure Tilly had properly bandaged and sewn up every cut on the fiery man’s body). 

“I know you lot didn’t go forgettin’ the whiskey back in Blackwater — “ 

It’s like a call to action; Bill and Lenny unstack the crates of liquor that had been laying mostly dormant since they came down from the mountains, Uncle finds his banjo buried under a pile of clothing, Pearson cobbles together a suspiciously fresh loaf of bread and cheese, and Dutch cranks his gramophone into crackling life. There’s speeches (from Sean) and laughter (from Karen who’s already telling him to shut up and start drinking), and then an honest to good, _ real _ party springs into life and Tilly almost has to pinch herself. Everybody seems happy, distracted, reminded of better times and she grabs for a beer for the first time in _ months_. The sparkling liquid hits Tilly’s throat and it travels through her bloodstream happily. _ Gratefully_. 

She stands then, on the edge of the growing commotion, because watching the gang — her _ family _ — is like committing the moment to memory. She smiles, she laughs, she shouts at Sean to get moving and nudges Mary-Beth when he makes a beeline for the whiskey. But for all intents and purposes, she hangs back. Cradles her beer close to her chest, feels the glass shape between her fingers and savours every mouthful. The smoke from the campfire gives the evening a kind of magical glow and casts soft shadows and almost, if she squints, makes everyone around her seem like oil paintings weaving in and out of each other. 

“You joinin’ this party?” 

Blonde hair jumps into view and Karen pulls Tilly out of her gentle reverie. A wide, joyous smile stretches across her friend’s face and she looks extra happy tonight, with Sean back and _ safe_. Tilly smiles.

“I’m here, just watchin’ the mayhem as usual,” she offers softly and lets Karen loop an arm through hers.

“That’s the _ problem _ with you!” There’s a sigh at that. “Always watchin’, never in the thick of it. What’s a girl gotta do to get you in there, Miss Jackson?” 

Karen points her quickly emptying whiskey bottle towards the campfire. 

“_ Look_, there’s Charles singin’ next to Arthur,” she explains like they’re reading the rags in the newspaper. “And John’s already drunk, that damn _ lush _ — “ 

“ — wonder what Abigail’s gonna say to that,” Tilly intercepts with a small laugh. 

“Who _ cares_!” Karen throws her hand up. “Ain’t that half the fun of it?” 

“I ‘spose you’re right,” Tilly concedes. Washes down a mouthful of beer when Karen makes a ‘_drink up!_’ motion with her hands. 

“Well come _ on_, already! Let’s go — “ 

She lets the other woman freely drag her around the party then, because maybe she _ was _ right. Maybe, for once, Tilly should _ indulge_. Should be a part of things instead of gazing at them like an engraving in a book. So they lean against Pearson’s wagon and make fun of drunk sea-faring stories, and distract Abigail from John’s bottomless hole of liquor with scandalous rumours Karen heard in Blackwater. They banter with an unusually talkative Charles about the prospect of horseless carriages. Hide Strauss’s glasses deep in the medicine pile while he’s not looking. Find a suspiciously cheerful Miss Grimshaw who had far baudier lyrics than Tilly thought was capable, and they sing three verses together just for the hell of it. Eventually, with empty whisky bottles as their trail — because spending time with Karen always seemed to involve _ alcohol _ — they end up draped across the wooden table with their boots up on the old crates and hands leaning back on the surface. _ Darling Clementine _ sounds off from a banjo for the third time that night and Tilly feels nice. _ Safe_. 

“S’weird,” Karen starts to slur then.

Tilly looks at her like she’s grown a second head. 

“_What’s _ weird?” 

A finger raises and points in the direction of the campfire, the one by the boy’s tents, and Tilly squints her eyes through the darkness. 

“He looks _ good_!” The word is punctured like Karen was offended by the very notion. Pointed finger becomes a waving, gesturing hand. “All fancy, like — _ like _ — s’tryin’ to impress or somethin’ — “ 

Handling liquor isn’t difficult for Tilly. She usually indulges in a beer after a hard day bent over the washing station, especially when the crisp air of the Heartlands leaves the bottle extra cold and the liquid flows down her throat like dipping her face into a fresh stream. But Karen’s been giving her sips from the dark, smoky substance in her whiskey bottle and Tilly feels it fizzling out her senses. 

“You mean Sean took a damn _ bath _ for once?” She says with a kind of warm laziness. “It ain’t all _ that_, Karen.”

“Not _ that_!” And Karen is pulling her close with an arm around her neck, bottle clinking in her ear and makes some sort of hushing sound like she’d stumbled on a big secret. “_Look _ — “ 

The smoke from the fire clears a little and there he was. 

_Unmistakable_. 

Javier Escuella sits with one leg in front of him and cigarette between thumb and finger, and the fire casts a kind of dancing light that makes him look far more dashing than he should be. He looks purposely _ gorgeous_. Tilly can see the shine in his hair, cleanly pulled back from his neck and those strands sitting perfectly against his cheeks. It’s been brushed and combed, and skin glistens with a fresh splash of water and she’s sure, even from their spot on the table, that he must have cologne on too. For a moment the idea rushes through her body like a runaway train; she can almost smell the spice, the cinnamon, the intoxicating combination her mind conjures up. A scent he obviously would bring out for _ special occasions_. It makes her shift her neck and hold her bottle of beer a little closer and think, maybe, he could be wearing it for a reason. Looking like _ that _ for a reason. 

_Oh_. 

“S’like — s’like he’s _ dressed up _ for someone, y’know?” Karen is continuing obliviously but it’s like white noise against Tilly’s ears.

Her stomach starts to do little flip flops like an acrobat high inside a circus. Her skin rises with goosebumps thicker than the first breath out of a cold dip in a lake. And Tilly’s mind suddenly, _ incredibly _ catches up and she almost trips over her own thoughts when they come fast and _ hard_. Everything floods back, replaces the excitement of Sean’s rescue and the excitement of his return and the party starting and _ oh_, how could she have been so plainly, goddamn _ stupid_? She’s vaguely aware of Karen still rambling beside her but Tilly can barely stand it. She can’t think of anything else, can’t imagine _ anyone _ else, because Javier Escuella is reigniting her fire like he’s dropped a stick of _ dynamite _ on it. 

There’s a giggle from behind and Tilly turns to see Molly in Dutch’s arms. They’re swaying to the music crackling from his gramophone, and then Arthur is reaching out to a coy Mary-Beth and the sight does something strange to Tilly’s insides. She pushes away from the table, mumbles something about needing another drink, or emptying her bladder or _ anything_, really, to feel the coolness of the night on her cheeks and not Karen in her ear. Tilly weaves through the tents and towards the sanctuary of the wagons. 

She can’t _ believe _ it. Can’t wrap her mind around his sudden appearance, the way it plays with her stomach like she’d stepped out onto a sharp cliff. Tilly sits herself down on the old carpet with knees to her chest and attempts to _ breathe_. Hears the party away from her, like it was being funneled through a tin can. Soothes herself with every twang of Uncle’s banjo and gleeful rise of voices in tune. Tries to focus, blindly, on the way the canopy above her sways in the timid night breeze. Tilly presses the cool glass of her beer bottle to her cheek — because she feels far warmer than she should — and closes her eyes. 

“Hi, Tilly.” 

And immediately they fly open again.

Lithe body moves and blocks the light briefly before sitting, with no preamble, right next her. Guitar strings shine in the dim light. And Tilly gapes like a fish. 

He’s wearing it, the _ scent _ she imagined _ , _ and it washes over her like waves of heat from sitting too close to a campfire and it feels _ good_. There’s a brilliant, red scarf tied lavishly around his neck, and a grey jacket and matching waistcoat, and black gloves that squeak as they curl around the neck of his guitar. Javier Escuella lifts his eyes to hers and Tilly sees something _ different_. Something that dances, confidently, behind brown eyes. 

Fingers position themselves over worn out frets. And without hesitation, Javier plays. 

“_Cuando salí de Hermosillo, lágrimas vine llorando_,” the song begins gently. “_y con la flor del trompillo me venía consolando._”

It’s something she hasn’t heard before, deeply seated in Spanish lyrics. He plucks and strums and voice holds her attention as if he were telling her a story, and never mind that Tilly doesn’t understand the intricate sounds that make up his mother tongue, because there’s looks that peek from under lidded eyes that are saying more. _ Implying _ more. Tilly shivers. Listens.

“_Yo soy como el coyotito_,” the words flow effortlessly. “_Que los revuelco y los dejo, y me voy al trotecito, mirando por debajejo.” _

She watches as Javier starts to grins widely and it’s suddenly the most animated she’s seen him, the most confident and commanding and _ enthralling _and Tilly can’t look away. The bottle of beer in her hand is like a much needed shield and she downs another mouthful. 

“_Ya se cayó el pino verde, donde habitan los pinchones,_” Javier continues. The glint in his gaze sparkles brighter. “y_ cayó él que andaba ausente, ahora verán pelones._”

He’s puncturing the end of each verse with long notes held high in his voice and Tilly can feel his eyes on her, can feel him trying to hold her own and she’s flicking between the intensity so starkly on display and the growing darkness around them.

“_Ya se cayó el jacalito, donde colgaba mi espejo_,” he’s pushing through his throat. Tilly thinks she’s never heard Spanish quite like this before. Never heard _ him _ quite like this before. “_Debajo del roble encinito, tendió su cama un conejo_.”

Gloved hand strums heavily against the guitar and he’s letting out a low whistle and the sound travels _straight_ down Tilly’s body. She’s like a mannequin in a store window, frozen to the spot. No use in begging her mind to clunk back into action again, because Tilly is so _taken_, so full of undefined feelings that race up and down her insides that all she can do is hold on. To listen to the man next to her. To Javier Escuella _singing to_ _her_. 

He pulls the song into a quieter tone. 

“_Les encargo a mis amigos que si ven a mi querida_,” Javier breathes out like a soft parting, “_no le digan que estoy preso, porque es el bien de mi vida_.”

Plucked notes bring to a slow close and Tilly realises she’s been holding her breath and she exhales, lets her body relax slightly. Takes another gulp of beer in hopes it calms her. There’s such a sudden blanket of sound around them then, before crickets ease back into life, the fire crackles somewhere off to her left, Uncle’s banjo gradually fades in.

Javier is sitting close to her, closer than he’s dared to before. Tilly thinks back on the past few weeks. Thinks of moments she hadn’t thought twice about, and then suddenly _ had_. Of conversations that seemed frivolous until they _ weren’t_. Of looks that could be entirely missed, before she started to catch each and every single one. Tilly puts together each piece like a puzzle almost completed. Like she could finally see the big picture instead of flecks of color on tiny squares. 

Her stomach somersaults again. 

“Tilly, I — “ there’s the smallest of cracks in Javier Escuella’s voice like he regretted filling the night air with the sound. He attempts to clear his throat. 

Tilly looks at him then. _ Properly_. Even in the low light he’s handsome — and she’s realising for the umpteenth time — with cheek bones that soften under brown skin and strong, expressive eyebrows. Tilly thinks he couldn’t be a day over twenty-eight, though she can see the lines of a hard life in him. There’s creases of thought around his mouth that disappear under his moustache, and tired ones that line his dark eyes. But she files each and every one of them away diligently in her mind. Keeps them close to her like she could wrap them in velvet. Determines, with the rest of the world seeming far away from them, what she wants.

“_Yes_.” 

And Tilly makes a decision right there and then. Because she can see the rise and fall of his chest, and the way his hands were gripping the neck of his guitar tightly, and his eyes, _ most _ of all, that burn with something she feels she can return. _ Finally_. It all makes sense, all comes together so _ brilliantly_, that Tilly is almost struck. 

Javier takes a short, controlled breath in. 

“Okay,” he says more to himself than to her but it doesn’t really matter. He unfurls his hands from the guitar and plants one on the ground and kisses her. 

* * *

There’s something strange that swells in Javier Escuella’s chest on a late evening in Horseshoe Overlook. He forgets, for once, of everything that’s come before sitting on a piece of old, worn out carpet below a tattered canopy that desperately needs fixing. He doesn’t think, for what could be the first time in _ years_, of a life lived somewhere else with people that left scars he wasn’t sure could be healed up, of decisions made with reasons that perhaps weren’t entirely smart, that left him battered and bruised beyond almost repair. _ No_. Javier makes some sort of internal choice, right there, that seems entirely blind at first, but makes more and more sense every time he breathes in. Every time he breathes in _ her_. 

Lips open against his. 

Tilly Jackson tastes like the first flower of Spring. Like a bed of dandelions or a pot of roses or maybe, she just tastes like _ new_. A fresh splash of water to his senses that washes away everything in its path, but not with the strength of the tide but rather the gentleness of a flowing stream. He could happily let himself be carried away wherever she wanted to take him, far away from moments that had a habit of creeping into his psyche, of painful reminders that usually blared like sirens. This was _ different_. Intoxicating in all the right ways, and Javier can barely stand the way she confidently meets him, the way her hand rests on his knee and squeezes just _ so _ and — 

“Javier,” she’s breathing out against his cheek. And pulling back to look at him with those deep, brown eyes. 

_Dios_. 

He stills. Uses the brief moment to indulge in the way his skin feels alive, like every fibre was buzzing and tickling and itching to jump straight out. 

“This is nice,” Tilly Jackson draws her words out. He’s sure she means _ something_, maybe the same something that’s growing in his chest. 

He nods. 

“It is,” and he leans just a little bit closer so his leg presses against hers and he can feel the warmth radiating off. Javier wants to kiss her again.

But then Tilly is placing a hand over his, and curling fingers around his palm and she’s standing, lifting him up with her and the brain power it takes to carefully leave his guitar to the side and not trip over her is almost enough to leave him light headed. She looks at him with purpose and all Javier finds himself doing is following dumbly, putting one gold tipped boot in front of the other until they’re treading down the side of the hill and to the small clearing scattered with an old wagon and broken, beaten up boxes. 

She guides him then to sit in the long grass that overlooks the cliff below. To sit _ closer _ to her than before.

“Now it’s just us,” she says and then adds with a tip of her head towards him, with eyes that linger on his lips and make his stomach jolt again, “if you don’t mind.” 

Javier shakes his head. 

“ ‘Course not,” and he’s adding too for effect, “How could I?” 

The moment seems to call for another act of bravery on his part — and perhaps one of mutual selfishness — so Javier moves closer, inches a hand to her waist but he’s stopped short. 

“Can I tell you somethin’?” 

Tilly’s hand is warm when she touches his knee again and although she angles her lips away respectfully, she nods towards his own hand and Javier timidly lets it rest against her middle. Feels the way her skin jumps under it. 

He swallows.

“Sure,” and Javier is thankful for the darkness that surrounds them. Tilly squeezes his trousered knee. The swell blossoms in his chest. 

He’s not sure entirely of what’s just happened, of what’s _ going _ to happen but Javier plucks courage from the adrenaline that courses through his veins. Instills confidence in himself, because _ Dios_, here he was. Here _ they _ were. Javier feels like he’s sitting on the highest cloud. Like his mind had stopped turning, had stopped filling his conscience and had simply, _ finally _ let him be. There’s the distant sounds of the continuing party behind them, and the pluck of Uncle’s banjo, and the boisterous singing from Sean, from Arthur, from Susan. And the wind is just crisp _ enough _ that he doesn’t miss the warmth of the campfire. His skin feels hotter than a summer’s day anyway; if his cheeks burned any brighter he’s sure she’d notice even in the low light. 

“You know, I don’t know what the _ hell _ I’m doin’,” Tilly is laughing softly then. Laughs at the view over the cliff face, at the stars that glimmer between floating clouds and trees that sway in the breeze. “You ever feel like that sometimes?”

There’s an openness that makes Javier feel like he’d kissed her again. Like she had peeled back a layer, shown him just a little more. He settles into the feeling. 

“Sometimes,” he agrees and flicks his eyes across to try and see what kind of look was on her face. Waits patiently for her to continue.

Tilly watches as a cloud covers the moon. 

“All _ this_, it could be gone tomorrow and I wouldn’t know what to do with myself,” muscles stretch underneath his hand as she pulls an arm back behind her. “It’s like tryin’ to trust a broken swing. You know you shouldn’t be swingin’ on it but you’re already flyin’ up high when the rope starts to break.” 

Javier lets the imagery roll over in his mind. Likes the way it feels, though he isn’t sure how well it would translate back in his own tongue. 

He nods.

“Maybe you had a reason to get on.” 

Tilly is shrugging. 

“Sure,” she says and he notices she hasn’t met his eyes still. They focus squarely on the stars disappearing in and out of the clouds. “But I knew the _ damn _ thing was broken.”

The warm silence that hangs in the air then isn’t uncomfortable, doesn’t make Javier feel like he had to fill it with frivolous words. Rather, he takes the moment to understand what Tilly _ meant_. He knows, quite truthfully, that most of them hadn’t come to the gang in the best of circumstances. Javier had asked Arthur one late night around the fire about the early days, about Dutch and Hosea finding him on the streets and raising him under their wings. Then John, of course, and Javier had come along years later when the gang had filled out with people like Susan, and Pearson. They all had their stories. Their distaste for society at large, that chewed them up and spat them back out like worthless meat. He’d heard most of them by now. Had spoken over shots of whiskey and inside the safety of tents on cold nights. 

Javier takes a breath in. 

“Do you regret it?” He asks slowly, carefully. Wishes he had a cigarette to flick between his fingers, though the way his hand rests on Tilly’s waist feels familiar and warm, like it belonged there. “Getting on the swing, I mean.” 

Thumb brushes over his knee and he sees her head shake beside him. 

“No,” Tilly says. And then after a moment, eyes settle on him finally. Javier feels his skin heat up again under his scarf. “But sometimes I wish I wasn’t so alone.”

The words pool in his stomach and creep up his chest in another spread of warmth, another _ swell_. It makes him feel anything _ but _ alone, like they were here together and that’s what mattered. He’s not sure there was a need then to share long stories, or deep words, or what brought them to be sitting here on a chilly hillside with a party pushing onto into the night behind them. Javier thinks it’s all better left unsaid. That this was one of those _ things_.

Tilly tilts her head up to him. 

“We could be alone together,” he says then half under his breath. “If you like, Tilly.” 

And she nods just a little. 

“I’d like that.” 

When Javier kisses her for the second time it’s so _ perfect_, so lovely that he can barely stand it and he clasps her waist, pulls her just that little bit closer to him and _ sighs_. Sighs into her mouth, because it’s like rain on his dry desert and flowers beg to bloom from forgotten plants and honestly, _ really _ he doesn’t want any of this to stop. Tilly’s hand drifts from his knee to his thigh and though the denim of his pants is thick, he can feel the warmth straight through. Can feel her, and sense her and smell her and _ taste _ her. Javier is dimly aware of the cold that creeps up from the ground, that they’re pressed together only feet away from the closest sets of tents. That this is a brief moment, that won’t find its conclusion tonight. So he _ indulges_. He traces each and every bump on Tilly Jackson’s lips, pins them to his memory. Runs his hands along her body, feels the thin texture of her wrists and the warmth of her palms. Kisses her neck, _ gently_, where skin meets the collar of her jacket. It’s been a long time since Javier has done this, has _ allowed _ himself to do this but he gives himself a reason. Gives himself _ many _ reasons, with each and every one of them belonging to her. 

Later, before the party had truly wound down but there was enough privacy to sneak back up the hill, they part with eyes that burn brightly. Javier clasps her hand one last time. 

“You okay?” He says. Nods towards the darkness of the wagons where Karen had spread out across three spaces. Javier almost wishes he was walking her to a door with a gas lamp warm above it, one that could belong to a little wooden house. It feels like a wistful dream long past the horizon. 

Tilly smiles at him anyway. A secret, knowing kind of smile that makes his stomach skip like a stone across a still lake. 

“I’ll survive.” 

She squeezes his hand lightly. 

There was more to be said, perhaps on a different night, with words left imprinted on skin. The thought snakes down his chest and kindles his fire. So Javier unloops his fingers from hers, lets eyes drift over her one more time, and pulls away. 

“Matilda.” 

Tilly says suddenly. Quietly, but loud enough to make him turn back. Javier creases his brows together. 

“That’s my name,” and her cheeks are glowing under the last of the lamps still lit near them. 

Javier sounds it out in his head. Puts two and two together. Decides, in almost an instant, that he likes it _ very _ much. 

“It suits you,” he says but what he really means is _ thank you_. Because the last thing he sees that night before falling asleep next to a snoring Bill, and with Sean still mumbling songs under his breath by the campfire, is that _ smile_. 

Those eyes, that have started to glint at him. 

And Javier feels like he knows Tilly Jackson just a little bit more. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is growing into a three parter now. Because things need to move a little slower and trust is a gentle thing. 
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the first part, I am really overwhelmed by the response and so happy that you guys are seeing what i see! I really just love a good character study, but there’s so little done out there for these two - and almost nothing of them together - that I really felt like it was deserved. I hope I’m doing them justice!

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot resist this little pairing; I’ve been doing another playthrough and noticed they spend a ton of time together during Horseshoe Overlook. This is an expansion on that, plus a little extra. Part II will be following very shortly! 
> 
> I also wanted to do a little more justice to Javier’s characterisation, and his past. Both Tilly and Javier come from places of deep trauma, and I think they’re both not in the mindset of “romance” in their everyday lives. But, staying true to the title of this fic, sometimes someone creeps up on you when you least expect it. Sometimes you find yourself giving in, because there’s that spark. I think they’re both quite pragmatic people when it comes down to it - Javier a little less, being a dreamer and a fighter - but well matched, and certainly deserve more of an exploration both separately and together.


End file.
